


Not as Planned

by Ragazza_Guasto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Attempted Seduction, Coming In Pants, Coming Untouched, Embarrassed John, First Time, Humor, M/M, Masturbation, One Shot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-08 23:29:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8867587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ragazza_Guasto/pseuds/Ragazza_Guasto
Summary: Sherlock can come untouched. So can John, apparently...





	

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know. I just wanted to write Sherlock doing the thing and this happened. Series 4 anticipation got me like whoa.  
> Enjoy!

John drops the shopping at his feet, absently aware that the jar of jam could have broken open, but less concerned with that than what he’s witnessing on the sofa in front of his very eyes.

 

Seeing Sherlock in respite, fingers resting on his lips in his infamous prayer pose, is nothing new, even his state of undress is typical, but the rest…

 

His blue dressing gown has slipped off his shoulders like a maid in a Victorian romance, his usual t-shirt and pajama bottoms are conspicuously absent, all that obscures John’s view of the proceedings are Sherlock’s dark grey boxer briefs. The briefs currently hugging Sherlock’s impressive erection, moulding around the cock that John has done his best throughout the years to pretend doesn’t exist. Well, here lies the evidence to the contrary. 

 

John’s breath leaves his chest like he’s been punched, lust gripping him tight and low in his gut.

 

Because it’s obvious what Sherlock’s up to; obvious but unbelievable. The erection tenting his briefs lies untouched but despite this still twitches and pulses as if it has a mind of its own. Sherlock’s breath remains even but his lightly muscled abdomen flexes every few seconds, drawing John’s eyes away from the main, unbelievable, sight of Sherlock masturbating untouched.   

 

Though it’s hard to tell exactly how John knows, the proceedings seem to be coming to an end. Sherlock’s stomach concaves, he lets out a soft sigh - John thinks to himself he’s made more sexual noises after a particularly good meal - and then his hips flex once, twice, before a tell-tale wet trail darkens his pants. 

 

John feels his knees start to buckle and grabs onto the doorframe for support. 

 

Sherlock’s hands part ways, reaching up, his body stretches long and lean against the leather sofa, leisurely releasing the tension that must have built during his...whatever he terms the session John has just witnessed. He scrambles to grab the shopping and make his way into the kitchen before his flatmate opens his eyes and realizes he’s been caught out. 

 

Jam, unbroken, goes into the fridge, alongside the juice, condiments, and milk. Bread, crisps, fruit jellies, and sugar he leaves on the counter to put away later, while the latest pile of bills gets the brunt of his focus. Their mobile plan is due the seventeenth-

 

“Did you remember those fruit things I like?”

 

John jumps. He can’t help it. 

 

“Yep,” he lifts the box from the Tesco bag and wiggles it, not turning to look his flatmate in the face. 

 

“Good.” 

 

John tries not to tense as Sherlock meanders over, casually leaning against the counter as he tears the box open. It’s going to drop any second now. Sherlock is going to glance up, see John so very red in the face, and call him out for peeping. Christ, he shouldn’t feel guilty about it, Sherlock is the one who decided to come all over himself in their shared, _public_ , living space. Yet, John is the one cowering against the fridge like a scared pup, hiding his still semi-erection with an obvious and awkward lean. Sherlock is not a meter away, chewing loudly on his fruit nibbles, any second now he’s going to say something-

 

“Do I have blue in my teeth?” 

 

He’s shocked into a laugh, and glances up to see Sherlock giving him a wide grin, the kind that turns him into a Shar Pei, to show off his teeth. 

 

“A bit, yeah, there in your eye tooth,” John informs him. Sherlock sucks the bits away and mumbles his thanks. John takes the time to study Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. He’s belted his house coat shut but he’s obviously still wearing his soiled pants. How can he act so casual about it? How often does this sort of thing happen? John’s imagination runs wild. 

 

“Didn’t think you’d really be bothered,” Sherlock casually says, opening another packet to pop another jelly into his mouth. 

 

“What?” John’s hand twitches.

 

“Didn’t that sort of thing happen all the time overseas? I would have thought you’d seen it all. Perhaps not my specific technique but the act in general, certainly.”

 

John’s doing his best to purposefully misunderstand, else his head fall directly off his shoulders and roll as far away as possible.

 

“What?” He says again, stupidly, instead of just walking away.

 

There’s a quiet moment, something heavy with tension, before Sherlock moves toward him. John notes that the half finished packet of jellies are spilling onto the floor, but more interesting is Sherlock standing in front of him, crowding him against the counter, not quite touching but only because John is leaning as far away as he can to keep from doing so. The edge bites into his lower back but he doesn’t know what’s happening, what Sherlock is playing at, and can’t afford to allow him to press forward. Not when the outcome could ruin everything.

 

“John,” Sherlock practically purrs. 

 

John holds his breath, lest he whimper and give himself away. 

 

“You must know how obvious you are to me.” He looks John up and down; slowly, meaningfully. 

 

John stammers, “I don’t- I, um- I don’t know what-”

 

“There’s this bit,” Sherlock interrupts John’s pathetic attempt at an excuse, pulling aside the collar of his dressing gown to showcase his pale shoulder, “right here, the sternocleidomastoid muscle, that you stare at approximately thirty-eight percent more than any other part of my body - yes, just like that - and have done since the very first time we met. Did you know that?”

 

Having been caught staring at that very bit, John jerks his eyes away and shakes his head, unsure of Sherlock’s point but terrified to voice any particular question. 

 

“Your pupils are dilated, your respiration is elevated, sweat beginning to collect at temples, upper lip, and neck. Do you know what your body is telling me? You enjoyed my little show. Yes, that was for you. Though you were meant to be overcome with lust, not continue putting away the shopping.”

 

All of that was on purpose? John’s world tilts a bit as he reconciles this new bit of information.

 

“You don’t like being caught staring though,” Sherlock goes on, “I can see how uncomfortable it makes you.”

 

John tries to choke out, “You don’t- We don’t…” but Sherlock’s face goes hard, not angry - _hungry_ \- and John tries again to reconcile this new change. Could they? Clearly Sherlock isn’t feeling the same hesitation John is; why is John even hesitating? Hasn’t he been dreaming of this moment for going on seven years?

 

“I feel I need to be honest here, John, I’d not imagined much after this bit. Sort of thought you’d step up and take care of the actual consummation.”

 

“What?” John stupidly asks for the third time. He’s still processing and Sherlock, as usual, is miles ahead.

 

Sherlock rolling his eyes doesn’t even bother John, he’s frustrated with himself, to be quite honest. On some level he’s absolutely sure about what’s going on, but that level just happens to be below his belt and above his knees, so he’s not keen on listening.

 

“I suppose,” Sherlock goes on, “I’ll just have to deduce my way through this as with everything else.” He looks John up and down again, lingering around his temples and fingers for some reason. “All right. Can’t say I’m surprised,” he says, as if John is contributing to the conversation. Perhaps he is, lord knows. 

 

“What?” He manages, yet again. What he’s really saying is, ‘What the bloody fuck brought this on? Why are you looking at me like I’m something to eat? Oh my god, please do, please fucking do.’

 

“Fellatio, John. Obviously. Seems to be a common theme in your fantasies of me, so I think we’ll start there. Sound good?” Sherlock’s eyebrows raise only slightly, like he's asking if it's all right to borrow a pair of socks. John merely gapes like a fish, feeling like his blood is pumping directly into his cock and nowhere else. Sherlock Holmes has just calmly and rationally stated he’s going to  _ start  _ by placing his mouth around John’s cock and blowing him. 

 

“Errrrrr…”

 

John can’t tell, because he’s beginning to black out, but he’s fairly sure Sherlock is frowning down at him. From far away John hears his flatmate mumble something or other, before sliding down to gracefully kneel at John’s feet. He manages to blink his eyes open enough to watch Sherlock study John’s trousers and belt, but by the time he begins reaching for them, it’s too late.

 

“Oh, fuuu…” He garbles as he explodes in his pants like a damn tween. Shot after shot, without even the slightest bit of pressure from Sherlock’s beautiful fingers. It’s an odd sensation he notes, coming untouched, just before his eyes roll and darkness greets him. 

  
  


John sneezes and smacks his head on the floor.

 

“Oww,” he groans, blinking and rubbing the sore spot. “What the hell…”

 

“Stimulating the hairs in the anterior nasal passage causes an involuntary convulsion of air.” Sherlock leans away, a rolled up bit of tissue between his fingers. 

 

That explains the tickle in his nose, but not why he’s stretched out on the sitting room floor. Wait, he'd passed out. “How long was I out?” he asks while he takes stock of his situation. 

 

“Fifty-seven seconds,” Sherlock answers. 

 

John becomes aware of the situation immediately when he realizes his trousers are unzipped and his softened cock is laying partway out of his pants. He remembers, lord help him, he remembers everything. “Oh god,” he groans, tugging his pants back up over his shame. Obviously there’s nothing he can do about it, it’s already happened, and to be fair Sherlock is still here, looking perplexed and slightly worried. As always, John's first instinct is to smooth the situation with humor. He looks up with a smirk. “Fifty-seven seconds, eh? Long enough for you to strip my pants off.”

 

Sherlock leans away. “I had to ascertain whether you’d climaxed or had a seizure.” John snorts at that. “How do you feel?”

 

“Like I came and then hit the floor,” he dryly admits and then, in the vaguest sense possible, asks, “What the fuck?” 

 

Sherlock fidgets with his belt, clearly trying not to pout, and failing. “I think I did it wrong.”

 

“Oh my god, no,” John rushes to assuage the wound he’s unwittingly caused. “Sherlock, no, that wasn’t your fault. If anything you were… It was… I mean…” He struggles to define the problem. He can’t very well admit he’d been wanking to the very image that Sherlock had made real. For _years_. “For what it's worth, I didn't even know I could do that. Come untouched.” He's blushing so damn hard at the admission. 

 

Sherlock seems to take John’s fumbling as excuse to gather his pride back around him - literally straightening. “Yes, well. When I did it, it was the culmination of years worth of mental training. I believe _you_ malfunctioned.”

 

“I- I did not malfunction!” John sputters, ears going red to match the rest of him. He settles when Sherlock gives him a small twitch of his lips. John sits all the way up, shifting Sherlock further away in the process. They stare off, away from each other, glances bouncing off random objects around the room. It's obvious neither knows what to do next. 

 

“Why don't we start with dinner?”

 

Sherlock looks up from the floor, hopeful. “You mean like a date?” 

 

“Yeah, that's generally where people start out in a relationship. Not…” He looks down at the both of them, soiled and soft. “...here.”

 

“I suppose I assumed we already were in a relationship.”

 

John scratches absently at his crotch. “We'll argue about it later. First, shower, then dinner, then hopefully enough liquor to make me black out again and forget this is how it started.”

 

Sherlock pouts. “I won't tell anyone you passed out.”

 

“How about you don't tell anyone anything?”

 

“Alright.”

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I'm sure I don't need to apologize for this but something about writing smut in the bathroom at work seems wrong. Idk. Let me know if this was satisfactory. And hit me up on the Tungle at [artisanbloodbank](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/artisanbloodbank)


End file.
